


The Waking Dream

by uglowian



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglowian/pseuds/uglowian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aldo recalls his life in Appalachia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waking Dream

The waking dream descends as any moment of private introspection might: silently and without warning.  
  
Draw me a bucket from the well.  
  
A summer’s day, steamy and hot. The rolling peaks of mountains in the distance—fuzzy through the midday haze. He trundles up the beaten path, beneath the relentless and unforgiving glare of a high-noon July sun.  
  
The sound of cicadas in the stagnant air.  
  
The smell of pollen, grass, and leaves—a lush, green earth, overgrown with its own fecundity. He pauses to scrub sweat from his eye.  
  
Water sloshes in its wooden bucket.  
  
At the doorstep, his mother waits for him, reaching out for the water—  
  
Now, the recollection of her hands. Veins twisting bluely over tendon strings, she hefts the knife a final time. A small hunk of rabbit meat topples to the floor. Jarbo, the hound, gobbles it up, drool stringing from his jowls.  
  
It’s autumn.  
  
Long reeds of grass frosted over; October unwinding into the long chill of November.  
  
She sits out back, scooping clear liquid from the tin tub into bell jars. Packs the bell jars into padded crates. He watches the motion of her arm. Swoop and lift. Swoop and lift. A rhythm.  
  
Now, the recollection of her hands. Veins twisting bluely over tendon strings, she screws the cap on—tight as it will go.  
  
Each jar glistens, for an instant, against the slanting light of the setting sun.  
  
You’ll drive these’ns down t’ the usual place.  
  
Yes ma’am.  
  
She tips the tub, pouring the last of the clearness into the last of the jars.  
  
He watches and his breath mists in the twilight air.  
  
Somewhere down the slope of the hill, Jarbo bays.  
  
When she’s through, she presses her hands into the folds of her skirt, drying them.  
  
Now, the recollection—  
  
Veins twisting bluely—  
  
Tendon strings—  
  
Hands—  
  
He blinks.  
  
The dream fades, though the waking becomes sharper.


End file.
